


artificial nocturne

by thethrillof



Category: The Batman (Cartoon)
Genre: Drabbles, Gen, oneshots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-04 03:51:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thethrillof/pseuds/thethrillof





	1. persevering

There were the drug dealers, the petty thieves, the scammers. The smalltime crooks. They were easy to beat, easy to keep off his streets. Relatively. More always popped up in their place, sometimes hiding better, usually not. He could deal with that.

  
His _rogues gallery_ , as the papers called them, were a whole different story.

  
Sure, there was Langstrom turning over a new leaf, but one didn't balance the scale when Joker and Penguin and Riddler and more were on the other side. They ignored their defeats, or raged and were motivated to swing back harder. They always came _back_.

  
Bruce went through cycles of wondering if the Batman was worth it. He had Alfred and Batgirl and Robin and sometimes even Lucius and Gordon to bring him out of it, but it was wearing. There was only so many times he wanted to come up with a new antidote when Joker made a new strain of his gas, wanted to skew his mind to fit the Riddler's next riddles, wanted to get pecked apart by birds.

  
But _wanting_ didn't matter when there were innocents like his parents had been out there, or even not-so-innocents. He vowed to preserve life when he took up cape and cowl, and he would.

Even if it wrang everything out of him, even if he was pushed nearly to the breaking point, he would persevere.

  
For Gotham.


	2. active

Blood on the streets isn't common anymore. The shadow of the Bat slips over the stains and washes them away, or hides them, deeper, deeper, deeper until it bursts into rusty orange over ancient brick and padded cells.

The sky is purple or green and the moon is a silver coin that everyone looks up at, waiting for a silhouette of wings to block it out.

It's fear, it's gratefulness, it's the sound of footstops on metal on concrete on gargoyles. Sometimes one pair, sometimes two, three, more. Running, fighting, flying, fists against skin and armor and stone.

The sky is red like the eyes and lips of a clown, bursting out in sharp curving laughter that hits the sand, making waves that drags everything away and then brings it back smooth but in a million tiny new pieces.

Bruises litter skin in the colors of the night sky, broken, healing, piling over each other and aching, ultimately ignored.

Welcome to an active night in Gotham.


	3. talkative

"I know you're there, Batman." The black's smeared off his lips and chin, but he barely notices.

"Of course you are. What don't you know? You know where I am, even after I run. Tell me, tell me--when you need me, you throw me away. When you're done with me, you bring me back. What am I?"

His voice bounces back to his ears and he rocks, shaking his head, straining at the ropes.

"An anchor. An anchor. You know that, you know everything. You're bright enough to go head-to-head with me. You know what I told you, in a situation almost like this."

Water rushes against his suit, and he trembles. "It's cold, you know. You're taking too much time. I don't need an anchor. I'm an enigma, not a hunk of metal." Wait. "I don't need a hunk of metal, I mean, unless it was sharp and would cut me out. My head hurts, you'll need to bring me to the hospital after this before Arkham."

Something cracks, and his voice is almost drowned out by the roar of the current beneath. "I have nothing to lose, but I know you hate to waste a life." Is that a tremor in his voice? Maybe. It's cold, it's natural.

The silence stretches on.

"You aren't a talkative one, are you? I knew that. Of course. But you're being off-putting, now."

He breathes in deep, ignoring the spray that starts to spatter his face.

"Come on, Batman."

Long silence.

There was scarlet in the water earlier, pooling and spiraling around his feet.

Riddler breaks.

_"Please."_

There is no answer.

And he knows there never will be.


	4. gentle

You're so tired.

Your forehead is hot, and so is your chest. You imagine it's the phantom pain of the bullets that took your parents away.

There's a bucket beside your bed on the floor, and a bell beside your head in case you need Alfred, but he comes by your room every few minutes anyway. You shift on the matress, feeling the sheets stick against your back.

You haven't been this sick since you were small, and a wave of grief washes over you. Mother was watching you then, holding your hand even as you were sick, Father preparing your medicine.

Black hair is plastered to your head thanks to the sweat, and you realize you're shaking. You hate being sick. You'll get stronger someday, and you won't get sick anymore. You won't let yourself. You'll be better.

Alfred walks in with a tray littered with crackers and ginger ale. You croak out a thank you when he helps you sit up. You can reach for them yourself, even if you nearly drop one, and he sits where Mother used to and you pretend you aren't crying. You haven't since it happened, only three-months-two-weeks-four-days ago. (You'd know the hours and minutes but the clock stopped the day before yesterday and there hasn't been time to fix it.)

Alfred gently rubs your back and pushes your bangs out of your eyes. "Any better, Master Bruce?" he asks, voice soft, even though your head doesn't hurt that much anymore.

You risk a nod, and his lips quirk up a little.

"It's late. As soon as you're finished, you need to rest." You think about protesting--you've been resting for _days_ \--but honestly, at this point you still feel terrible.

He lays you back down and tucks you in. As you look up at him and realize he has sleepless circles beneath his eyes.

You can't tell him to sleep, because he won't listen, so you clutch at his hand instead. You plead at him to stay with a look, and he complies, settling into your bed.

You don't ask for a story, even though a tiny part of you wants to, and he doesn't make conversation. He wants you to go to sleep as much as you want him to. You close your eyes to fake it, and end up actually doing it.

When you wake up, just for a couple minutes, you find Alfred lying beside you, snoring softly.

You curl against him (it's _not_ cuddling!) and go back to sleep.


	5. noise

The Noise made it seem like solid fact.

 _'I am your master'_ inserted between 'the grass is green' and 'the sky is blue'. That's just how it was, how it should be, how it always had been, even though Man-Bat could think back and remember that it actually hadn't.

Kirk Langstrom was, for once, stronger. Just a little. He could feel the thoughts overlaying his own, slithering over the wrinkles of his brain and slicing his head open from his ears inward. He could scream, _"Get out of my head!"_ and quiet Penguin's voice, reject it.

The Batman's voice was less painful, and he was only a few clipped sentences with things that Man-Bat would naturally do, although perhaps a little less bloody. Compared to days of droning, complying to exhausting orders, and no food besides a slice of anchovy pizza tossed between the bars of his cage, it was nothing.

And that was the problem.

After being sent back to Arkham, it was Penguin who haunted his thoughts.

He hated it. He had better hearing after his experiments, and he could hear the man's voice through the halls, and always flinched to cover his ears. The result was the same with any high-pitched noise, the worse cell doors and the old pipes, and even the sound of the true bats that sometimes shot past the high barred windows late at night. It felt like the Noise. It felt like he was going to be ripped apart and changed and controlled without his consent.

If it were the Batman--he didn't know why, but that would'be been better. Maybe because it was less, he was less petty, less irritating, and less often heard. He never really came to Arkham, merely leaving the criminals he captured tied up within the gates.

And he was worth fearing, more worthy to be what the strongest Bat in Gotham would battle and even submit to.

Not a little man with _trick umbrellas_.


	6. trust

"Of course he saved you. He's the Batman," Riddler said, looking up at her irritably.

"But what if he didn't?" Yin pressed.

"He did."

"I _know_ he did," she said, a trace of frustration slipping into her voice. "But what if he hadn't? I don't mean if he chose not to, I mean what if he couldn't?"

He glared. "He would've some other way."

Yin leaned back, crossing her arms. "That isn't an answer."

"Then if he hadn't, you'd be dead, Detective," he snapped. "What more do you want me to say?"

"Your plan would've failed," she replied quietly. "The GCPD wouldn't have been chasing me for the bombs."

A green shoulder rose in as much of a shrug as was possible with the Batman's restraints. "But he did, and my plan was nearly perfect. Why the sudden interest in past cases, Yinsy?"

She looked away, then up, scanning the buildings around them out of habit. No sign of him.

"You have a lot of trust in him, then," she said in a low voice. She saw Riddler stiffen out of the corner of her eye.

"It isn't trust," he said, nearly snarling. "It's nothing more than--than pattern recognition. He's a regular do-gooder, which was obvious even before your people started working with him."

That had been more thanks to Rojas than anything, but she didn't say that. Instead, she glanced back at Riddler, and then at the moon that loomed above him.

"It was obvious," she said slowly. She wasn't sure why she wanted to talk to him, one of Batman's arch villains of all people, about this. She went ahead anyway. "But I wonder what would happen if he wasn't like that."

'Like that.' Prepared. Ready. _Protecting._

"Yinsy, Yinsy, are you doubting our own city's Dark Knight?"

Her arms tightened across her chest, but she kept from saying something she'd probably regret. "No. I trust him, even if you don't." _Or say you don't_ , she thought. "Rumor just made me think about it a little more than usual."

"Rumor. Rumor planned to kill us in one fell swoop," Riddler said, mood shifting, sounding thoughtful. "I don't think the Batman would be so kind, if he went over to the dark side."

There was a pause, and finally the siren of a proper police car sounded in the distance. They both turned their heads towards the sound, but they were in a quieter part of Gotham, and just a glimmer of red-blue lights on the horizion.

When Yin looked down, Riddler was leaning back, head resting against the building they were beside. He looked troubled.

"I've thought about it before," he said. "Before Rumor, although I have been more recently since."

"It's terrifying," she said lowly.

Riddler chuckled, but it was weak. "For once, Detective, we're in perfect agreement. We'd never be able to stop him," he added softly, almost to himself.

The sound and sight of the police car was closer now, and they shared a look before it screeched to a halt beside them.

Riddler leaned forward. "You may trust him, Yin--" it was bizarre hearing her actual name coming from him "--and I believe he won't change, but if he does, _if he does_ , I'd prefer to have you on the opposite side. Our side."

The police finally stepped out, one tipping his hat to Yin before hauling Riddler to his feet and into the back of the car.

"Alright," Yin said, just as the door slammed shut.

The cops looked puzzled, but Riddler tilted his head toward her and nodded, lips set in a serious line.

_Good._

 


End file.
